Last Stand
by Alley Cat Sunflower
Summary: Underestimating your opponent never ends well—especially when you're not as young as you used to be. Twenty-four years after they save the world, Flynn and Yuri try to take down some rebel Knights' forces on their own… and things don't go as planned. Mentioned Yuri/Judith and Flynn/Estelle/Rita; OCs are their kids. T for blood. I do not own Tales of Vesperia or the cover art.


The first inkling Yuri had that anything was wrong was the moment when, out of his peripheral vision, he noticed Flynn doubled over, clutching at the hilt of a sword embedded in his chest.

They'd stormed the fort, just as planned; Flynn and Yuri may have been forty-five years old, but they were still an extremely formidable duo. They'd offered to go the deepest into the fortress alone to try and exterminate the soldiers from the heart of their camp, driving them outwards so they would send for reinforcements.

There, they'd be ambushed. The rest of Brave Vesperia, plus Estelle (who had _insisted _on coming along despite what her husband said about keeping her safe), would ambush them from the various hallways—and eventually make their way to meet Flynn and Yuri in the center. Raven had been the one to insist that they retrieve them rather than merely wait for their return, though Karol was very quick to approve.

But everything was taking much, much longer than expected, and no matter how much Yuri denied it, he and Flynn certainly weren't as young as they used to be. An entire roomful of soldiers _plus_ a skilled general previously under Flynn's personal training was too much for only two men to face, even seasoned warriors.

Yuri's world cracked and then shattered the second that blade made its way out his best friend's back. How dare these soldiers reject the Commandant they had followed over decades! How dare they threaten the safety of Estelle's empire! They had assassinated Ioder, threatened Estelle, and now stabbed Flynn—and with that, they had gone _too far_.

"O brilliant blade of coldest steel," snarled Yuri, his sword practically glowing with his desire to destroy every single traitor among this group, and fierce pride surged through him, bringing energy to his limbs, as the soldiers backed away uncertainly. Distance wasn't going to save them.

"Rend the infinite darkness, and crush my enemies to nothing!" bellowed Yuri, charging towards the soldiers, and slashing blindly through their midst: several screamed and fell, and he savored every shriek. "_Savage Wolf Fury_!" he roared, and plunged his sword through the final soldier's torso, ripping it out a moment later and surveying his handiwork with vicious pleasure.

A muffled sound pulled Yuri abruptly back to what had caused his rampage to begin with, and he sheathed his sword and turned around to see that Flynn had sunk to one knee—swaying a little, but oddly graceful in his pain. Forcing himself to walk forward and ignore the blade protruding from under his cape, Yuri knelt by his friend.

"We'll get Estelle," said Yuri desperately, gripping Flynn's shoulders tightly, his knuckles white. No way in hell was he going to lose his best friend of forty years to a single stupid soldier, especially after their (narrow) victory over the general himself. "Damn it, Flynn!" growled Yuri a moment later, leaning his forehead against his friend's in furious despair.

Flynn's eyes opened slowly, his teeth grit, and Yuri felt weak with relief for a moment. He was still fighting—and even had the audacity to look annoyed. There was hope, after all.

"You can't—" began Yuri, more patiently, as though reasoning with an irrational child—but Flynn's unfocused eyes slid to a point behind his back and widened in sleepy alarm. Yuri only had time to realize what he was trying to say and whirl around with his hand on his sword before white-hot pain tore suddenly up through his midriff.

A knife. Yuri stared down at the plain handle, jutting out of his body just like the sword buried in Flynn's chest, and then glared up at the single rebellious knight who stood before them. The part of his brain not frozen in agony liked to think that he quaked in his boots at his expression.

"_You_," he growled indistinctly, through the haze of pain, and his sword moved of its own accord: Yuri stood over the decapitated body of his final foe. It was strange to think that twenty-four years ago, nothing in the world could so much as touch him. Now, here he was, sheath to the dagger of a lowly _soldier_.

Yuri staggered back almost as though he had been pushed, hitting the wall more abruptly than he would have liked. Every one of his breaths hurt; his legs staunchly refused to hold him up any longer, trembling under his own weight. Yuri slid to the ground to slump beside Flynn, groaning. Even turning his head aside to look at him seemed an effort.

"Well—there are worse ways to go," panted Yuri, grinning tentatively, but lapsed into coughing as he tried to complete the sentence: if he were to speak, it would have to be quietly, or else his time would run out faster.

Maybe Ba'ul would sense something was wrong; Yuri had practically lived on his back for many, many years, after all. He glanced out the broken window half-hopefully, but the skies remained as still and gray as the stone against which he leaned, and no Entelexeia's call echoed in his buzzing ears.

"Yeah," agreed Flynn hoarsely, opening his eyes briefly and giving him an exhausted sort of smile which quickly became a grimace.

There was a long silence, save their ragged breathing, and Yuri longed to fill it. In only a few more minutes, he would be silent forever—why had words forsaken them? Why did their bodies so uselessly insist on trying to catch their breath when their breath would still within such a short time?

…If Estelle didn't come for them first. Yuri pushed this option out of his head quickly; he would rather focus on the worst-case scenario and be pleasantly surprised by a miracle than cling to the belief that she would show up—and be disappointed in the end.

"They'll miss you," said Flynn suddenly, flopping his head to one side to look at Yuri dully. "Brave Vesperia. Your family. Estelle." The last name was added with an unusual hesitation, and Yuri smirked before attempting futilely to clear his throat. Flynn had never fully gotten over the ridiculous notion that Estelle was secretly in love with Yuri.

Well, if she was, she certainly hadn't tried to _do_ anything about it—and they'd known each other for a good twenty-four years. "Yeah?" chortled Yuri, wincing a moment later as agony flashed through his gut at his movement. "She'll miss you more."

Flynn bowed his head, but Yuri couldn't tell whether the motion was deliberate or not. He was closer to death than himself, after all. "She has Bel and Finath," he rasped, and Yuri gave a faint smile as he thought of Flynn's children—his godchildren, named for Belius and Flynn's late father, whom he had finally forgiven.

Yuri's driving thoughts in the fray hadn't been of the protection of his godchildren, nor even his own son. The emotion that drove him forward, as in all fights, had been the exhilaration of battle. It might have been selfish of him, but in light of the fact that he was going to hell anyway, that didn't matter so much to him. He figured with a twinge of guilt—an alien emotion in his bosom—that perhaps it _should_.

"She's got Rita, too," coughed Yuri, grinning tentatively as Flynn looked annoyed. After having known each other almost all their lives, he might have known that on their deathbeds, they would still be antagonizing one another. (Though Flynn hadn't had a problem with his wife's involvement with Rita, so long as he could come along for the ride, he still acted as though he did in an effort to maintain his fragile dignity.)

"Not what I—need to hear right now," grumbled Flynn, voice cracking under the stress of dying, as he traced the flat of the blade with shaking fingers. He seemed determined not to look at the sword in his chest; Yuri didn't blame him. Even he, with his calm and rational outlook on his prospects of survival (not likely), could barely stand to look at the hilt of the dagger buried in his gut.

"Hey—I speak the t-truth," panted Yuri, leaning his head against the wall and staring at the ceiling. "But, sorry," he added hastily. He didn't want to have their last words to one another be an argument, even one in jest. Apologies came much more quickly than usual when he knew he would never get another chance.

"It's… fine," breathed Flynn painfully, closing his eyes again, and waves of silence licked at their feet; the tide was coming in, ready to drown them. Forgiveness, too, was more easily given, and Yuri was grateful for that. If only communication could be this simple in life as well.

Wincing as pain throbbed through his midriff, Yuri's hand flew to the edge of his cut, but the action only flooded his nerves with more torture. He _could_ always pull the knife out, and hasten death's embrace, but… He frowned at the sword in Flynn's chest, wondering whether it would be a kindness for his friend—but if Estelle should show up just as soon as the last of her husband's life had ebbed away—

"Who's going to be—Commandant?" asked Yuri with a tremendous effort, and his vision flickered for a moment as he moved his head to the side.

"Sodia," responded Flynn promptly, with a somewhat strangled sigh.

"_Sodia_," repeated Yuri, rolling his fading eyes. To think, twenty-four years ago, she had tried to kill him, and here he lay dying of the very wounds she had once inflicted. Their score had been settled through words, of course, and she'd eventually stopped treating him with open hostility—but there had always been a spark of animosity burning between them. Attempted murder wasn't easily forgiven, after all.

He wondered whether or not his death would bring her more satisfaction than sorrow. Not that it mattered much, of course—Yuri wouldn't be around to be insulted.

Yuri's breath caught as a thought surfaced suddenly in his mind, and he resented that it had not come up sooner, what with Flynn's talk of his own children—how _moral _of him, to think of his family above all else.

What of Niren? What would his death bring to _him_?

Unfortunately, his own son had inherited both his parents' secrecy regarding their own emotions—and Yuri found himself wondering whether he would even mourn his passing. He felt a strange pang at the thought that he should go unmissed by any of his own family, and thought wryly that perhaps this was what being a father was supposed to feel like.

He had never been what most would classify as a great parent, after all—but he liked to think their little family held together remarkably well. They were all part of Brave Vesperia, so they went off on missions together as their own little division of the rapidly expanding organization, traveling on Ba'ul's back and bringing glory to their guild.

Of course, Judith had insisted on teaching little Niren how to fight from a very young age. Yuri wanted him to grow up to be a swordsman, but Judith insisted he keep up the Krityan tradition of using spears in battle. That was one of few points on which he and his wife had ever genuinely argued—which weapon his son was to use when he grew up.

He'd chosen the spear, of course, in the interest of preserving the techniques of his heritage (as Judith so prettily put it, even though he was only six at the time). He certainly could pass for a Krityan, anyway, though his ears were a little less pointed and his feathery tufts were smaller. Now, at the age of sixteen, he already stood only an inch shorter than his admittedly tall mother.

He got Yuri's hair, about which Yuri was prouder than perhaps he should be—though he declared that he wouldn't let it grow out past his shoulder at the absolute longest, because his tufts got in the way as it was. His eyes, however, were much closer to Judith's: a dusky shade of violet-gray, reminiscent of twilight on a cloudy eve, and surprisingly expressive for one with such a guarded personality.

Yuri sighed heavily, finding with some alarm—his heart beat frantically before slowing again as though weary—that his lungs apparently refused to accept air anymore. Who knew breathing would be so difficult in the end? He'd always considered a sword through the stomach a quick and easy death, but this… this was…

He forced himself to think about his child again, one of the next generation of heroes. Yuri grit his teeth: he had to think about something—_anything_ but the dull ache with the sharp edge, spreading through his body.

_Life_. Life would go on. Niren had already announced his intention to the world that he was going to win the hand of seventeen-year-old Bel, who punched him every time she heard new rumors, much to the more pacifistic Finath's dismay. (Though that facet of her personality was probably inherited from 'Aunt' Rita.)

And, Niren was surprisingly good friends with Don Capel, named for his father's idol. He'd inherited his mother's temperament, so Yuri had never liked him much despite also being _his _godfather—what was with all his companions, current (well, recent) and former, making him godfather to their children, anyway?

Flynn coughed suddenly, with such vigor that Yuri started and stared, eyes glazed, wondering if perhaps he was shuddering to life instead of death. "Yuri," he choked, grasping the hilt with renewed intensity, glaring at nothing with the effort of speaking. "I can't stay l-like this any—more…"

Yuri knew the feeling, but that didn't mean he had to agree. He rested a hand on Flynn's uncertainly, swallowing painfully. Was that Ba'ul's cry from high above? Was that Judith's voice, or Estelle's, that called out for the two of them desperately?

…No. Only their breathing, shallow and rapid and uneven, broke the silence.

"T-together," croaked Yuri, and Flynn nodded. Each drew out the blade from his chest, Yuri letting out a string of half-whispered curses, Flynn merely gritting his teeth and practically yowling in pain.

The two blades clattered to the floor, and Yuri instinctively clutched at his jagged wound, though he knew it would only prolong his suffering: he forced his hand away again, ignoring his instinct for once. He fixed his eyes on the ceiling before eventually closing them, feeling with some degree of disgust his life spilling out of the gash in his front with every weak pulse of his heart.

"Flynn?" breathed Yuri after several seconds, but doubled over, coughing: he spat blood onto the ground and wiped his mouth with a shaky hand, blurry in his dying vision.

"…Yeah?" responded Flynn, with just as little strength, by now curled on the ground and watching the stream of red flowing from his chest with blank eyes. Yuri allowed himself to lean forward, pain writhing in his body, and fall onto his hands and knees.

"See you—in hell," gasped Yuri, lying down exhaustedly in the pool next to his friend, and at his bloody half-smile, Flynn's expression softened for an instant and the corner of his mouth tugged up before both sets of eyes closed forever.

_His last dreamlike thought was of a long, lazy, lingering kiss with Judith before they turned away from each other wordlessly; she smirked, brushing his shoulder softly as she sashayed away. And, as he shouldered his pack and took his first steps forward into the burning sunrise—twenty-one again—he smiled: he thought he saw Repede bounding toward him once more._


End file.
